


I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

by anon_nom_nom



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Community: yj_anon_meme, Friendship, Gen, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:59:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anon_nom_nom/pseuds/anon_nom_nom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from yj_anon_meme:<br/><i>Okay, so I always thought that the reason DCAU Dick turned into such a bitter little thing was because he only ever had Batman, and sometimes Batgirl, but he never had his Titans or his Wally or anything.</i></p><p>  <i>So I would like so see something where Robin is starting to show early warning signs of this, maybe just frustration after a really bad night on the job in Gotham with Batman, and him actually having his team there to help him deal with it.</i></p><p>In which Robin has a bad night, discusses poetry, and gets a massage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

**Author's Note:**

> As this prompt was posted more than a year ago, I'm going to go ahead and assume no one is still tracking it. And post it here. Where no one will see it also, but for different reasons.

The worst thing about Batman was the mask.

Really, the more Dick thought about it, the more ridiculous it was. It had bat ears on it, for one thing, and that pretty much functioned to highlight the fact that this was a grown man who thought dressing up as a flying rat was the best way to act scary. Not to mention, if you thought about his name for more than about three seconds, it started to sound like something an eight-year-old would come up with. Superman at least had the excuse of being named by the forever-inane news media, but Bruce genuinely seemed to think that his was a reasonable choice.

As the dark, dew-sparkling pavement passed under his feet, Dick briefly entertained a vision of Alfred chasing around a younger Bruce, who was wrapped in a trash bag and insisting, _I am vengeance. I am the night. I am Batman._ in a tiny child-voice.

Instead of amusing him out of his sulk, he felt some jagged, vindictive part of him sink in deeper, uncharitably observing that Bruce actually continued that behavior as a grown-up. It was, in fact, the keystone of his entire existence. If Alfred had taken him to any shrinks, it obviously hadn't worked. They were probably still out there somewhere, bribed into silence or wooed by Bruce's eight-year-old intellect into thinking nothing was wrong. Because, of course, to him, nothing _was_ wrong. It was everybody _else_ that was incomprehensible.

So, actually, the stupid, pointy bat ears were the ultimate symbol of Bruce's infantile inability to even attempt to get over his own trauma. He still was that little boy pretending to be a scary creature in the night shortly after something similar but less metaphorical had taken his parents.

Batman never should have taught him psychology.

Dick's boots slapped on a patch of wet concrete, tainted with an oily smell he'd rather not investigate. Turning a corner, he crossed the deserted street and made for the stairs to the subway entrance.

Buzzing sodium lights made it lighter inside, but he wished they didn't; the dingy yellow-beige tile looked like it had never been cleaned. With a shudder, he realized it was possible it hadn't been, since the old subways were pretty much abandoned after Gotham City Rail took over. He was pretty sure he'd seen Killer Croc down here more often than upstanding citizens.

The primary zeta was in the Bat-Cave, but Dick had a hard time even taking the name seriously right now. He definitely couldn't go back for awhile, and that was the least of the reasons. Maybe he wouldn't go back at all.

For a moment, his thoughts hitched on that before adding _tonight._ Maybe he wouldn't go back at all _tonight,_ that's what he meant: he'd sleep in the other Cave, change into his well-hidden spare Gotham Academy uniform, go to school, and get picked up by Alfred like nothing happened. And they'd never speak of it again. And this whole scenario was actually the optimal outcome.

Testily, he shoved aside the door leading to the nasty public restroom that was the general Gotham zeta. Irrelevantly, he felt a pang for Artemis, who had to use this as her primary. Maybe he'd tell her where the Bat-Cave was, just let it... _slip._ He'd been so good so far, and who actually expected a thirteen-year-old to keep a secret this perfectly?

A calm, irritating voice of reason (which sounded oddly like Aqualad) pointed out that Batman was sure to make the connection if it happened so soon afterwards. The other part of him snarled that he hadn't really been considering it anyway.

Batman had set the Gotham zeta recognition scans to silent, so there was no verbal warning before he was walking out of the tube and into the empty training area, catching the echo of his own name. The lights were off and had to reactivate, hammering home exactly how late it was. No sane person was awake at this hour.

Uncertainty crept into whatever hard knot his brain had become: what did he even intend to do here? Entertaining the sneaking suspicion he was behaving exactly as childishly as he'd thought of Batman as being, he sighed and ruffled the back of his hair. He made a movement as though to take off his mask before stopping himself. A surge of irrational frustration blazed through him like phosphorus—Mount Justice should be a safe place, somewhere you could be yourself. And it was. For everyone but him.

The tunnel toward the kitchen lit up as he entered, its fluorescent lights clicking a few times in the utter silence as they activated. Powder and hot water wouldn't be as good as Alfred's cocoa, but he needed to do something to calm down before he went back, so he didn't take off someone else's head because he couldn't have Batman's.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't see that the light in the kitchen was on before he opened the door. The movement from the table surprised him enough to make him dive behind the kitchen island and palm a Batarang before he even realized what he was doing. His next reaction was how Batman would have his hide for not paying attention to his surroundings, and in the next instant, he was irritated with himself for Batman's opinion being his first thought.

There was a girlish laugh from the other side of the room, and Dick poked his head out somewhat sheepishly to confirm that it was Miss Martian and Superboy there, sitting on opposite sides of the table. He replayed his memory to reassure himself that he hadn't somehow missed them talking as well.

"Um, hi," he said. Putting the Batarang _(really, Bruce?)_ away, he straightened up and tried to look nonchalant.

"Hello," said Miss Martian, but Superboy just sort of briefly glowered up from his book. In fact, the whole table was covered in books and notebooks. Some kind of research?

"I didn't expect anyone to be up this late," said Dick, like that was an excuse.

"We're studying for an English test!" said Miss Martian, beaming like it was the most exciting thing to happen to her for months. "Wally said this was the traditional way to prepare for it."

"What?" asked Dick. It was too much of a disconnect from his mental state to process correctly.

"He called it an all-nighter," growled Superboy, and this time Dick could see that his general annoyance was directed at Maya Angelou, not him. "It seems ineffective."

"It's called cramming," said Dick, "and it is traditional, but nobody said it was—"

He jumped as the door swung open again, this time admitting Aqualad, who was mid-yawn and didn't see him at all. Not wanting to surprise anyone, Dick made a tiny scuff to attract his attention.

"Robin," said Aqualad. "Is there an emergency?"

"No," Dick answered automatically, though some twisted part of him felt like he was lying. "Just... visiting. Long night."

As though to prove it, he turned toward the cupboard and took down a packet of hot chocolate. Superboy and Miss Martian went back to their studying. Berating himself for being so unsubtle and twinging with a weird guilt, Dick filled a cup with water while Aqualad settled himself on the far side of the table. Balancing it against the table edge, he picked up a tome-looking book that Dick was sure he should have noticed.

The cup went into the microwave, and as he leaned against the counter to wait, the Atlantean unaccountably produced a pair of glasses and set them on his nose. Dick was so surprised that, a moment later, Aqualad caught him staring.

"Sorry," he said. "I was just...."

"The refraction of air is different from water," said Aqualad before Dick could make anything up. "This book is from Atlantis, and it is... difficult to read here otherwise."

"Oh," said Dick, a bit lost. He never knew about this. But then, Aquaman wasn't likely to broadcast it, was he? "You don't go to school, though, so...."

Aqualad sighed and let the book fall back to the table.

"I have been negligent in my studies and fallen behind my peers," he said. "I am trying to"—he concentrated for a moment to remember the expression—"catch up." 

Dick wasn't sure how to articulate his confusion about why he was doing this _now,_ in the middle of the night, so when the microwave beeped, he turned without saying anything. Studious silence settled again, and he began to feel like he was intruding. Tearing open the package of hot chocolate, he dumped it in the cup. The click and ring of the spoon against the sides seemed unnaturally loud.

"ARGH!" The sound was torn from Superboy like it had been building up for hours, but it made Dick's knees unlock with surprise. "I don't understand any of this!"

"Any of what?" he asked, taking a sip of hot chocolate and hoping for a way to legitimize his presence here.

"This!" said Superboy, and it was a testament to how far he'd come that he slammed the book down without breaking anything. "It's supposed to be about racial discrimination, but it's talking about birds and cages! It doesn't make any sense!"

Aqualad leaned over and frowned at the book.

"Atlantean poetry is much different in structure," he said, then coughed. "And I... never made a study of it."

"I don't understand it either," said Miss Martian with a frown that looked odd on her. "What's the point?"

"It's about emotion," said Dick. Seriously, how could you not get this?

"Why don't they just say what they mean?" asked Superboy. With a long-suffering sigh, Dick crossed to sit at the remaining chair at the table.

"Look, it's about expressing feelings," he said, then something clicked and he glanced at Miss Martian. "I guess you don't have to use metaphors if you can go straight to the source."

"But why metaphors?" asked Superboy. "If you want people to understand what you mean, you should just say it."

"Okay," said Dick. "You're frustrated right now, right?"

"Yes."

"Describe it."

"I... it... it feels like...." said Superboy, but he ran out of words. Miss Martian's mouth formed a slow O. Superboy stared down at the book like Dick had said been told it was a dangerous creature liable to bite, but he rallied. "I don't have to describe it. That's what the word 'frustrated' is for."

"Yeah, I guess you could say, 'I don't get this book and it frustrates me,' but you can't make other people understand if they haven't felt that, too," said Dick. He stirred his hot chocolate a little more to work out the lumps, then licked the spoon on an impulse. Alfred wasn't here to frown at him. "Poetry's as much about the reader as it is about the author."

"So..." said Miss Martian, frowning in concentration at her own book. "So when she's describing the trapped bird, she's talking about her own emotions in a way that others can visualize!"

Dick glanced at Aqualad, a little astounded that this was so revolutionary, but Aqualad was giving him this weird, evaluating look that managed 'unnerving' status. Not for the first time, he had to remember that not everybody had to know how to deal with supervillains on the Gotham order of weird; between the Riddler and the Mad Hatter, prosody was a life-saving essential for him.

"Well... what's the free bird, then?" asked Superboy.

Dick hadn't actually read the poem in ages, so he reached over to pull the book out from under Superboy's hands. When he finished, he couldn't quite stop himself from pulling in a sharp breath; he was pretty sure he'd stopped breathing for a second there. Clearing his throat, he handed the book back and tried to think of another comparison for Superboy. How would he explain it to Wally?

"It's kind of like a control group?" he said. "It's what people think of as the default, and the caged bird is pointing out the results of the experimental group."

He didn't think that was a very good metaphor, but Superboy frowned like he was working it through.

"So... it's there for contrast?"

"Right," said Dick.

"I still don't understand why she didn't write about why she was frustrated," said Superboy.

"She did," said Dick, leaning forward. "You can argue logically until the cows come home, and other activists were doing that, but people—" remembering he was in a room with a Martian, an Atlantean, and a Kryptonian clone, he amended, "—humans don't really get motivated to do anything unless you can make them feel it."

And that, of course, was the problem with Bruce: he only ever seemed to feel the one thing. One, single memory he'd wrapped his whole life around.

"Cows?" said Superboy, and Aqualad let out an amused huff. Frowning, Superboy continued, "From context, an idiom meaning 'forever'?"

And that right there was proof that they weren't stupid, just aliens.

"Yeah," said Dick, swirling his hot chocolate around. "Sorry."

Superboy turned to a set of neat, copious notes that Dick suspected were full transcriptions of entire class periods. Miss Martian was scribbling away furiously. Aqualad had replaced his glasses, and Dick realized with an odd jolt that the lenses were made of water, which made total sense and was completely awesome.

Looking down at the dark contents of his cup, he considered making them some kind of late-night snack in honor of Wally's "advice" about studying, because junk food was just as traditional. He wanted to snicker at the thought of them actually taking Wally's advice, but couldn't quite manage it.

The scratching from Miss Martian's pen stopped, and Dick looked up to see her staring at him. She turned red immediately.

"I need to apologize," she blurted. "I, um, it's just—you said poetry was about emotion and I didn't even think about doing it! I know I'm not supposed to read minds, but I did kind of a surface skim when you were reading it, and—did you have a fight with Batman?"

She clapped a hand over her mouth as though trying to take back the words. Aqualad looked faintly alarmed, but Superboy only drew his eyebrows together in confused curiosity. Dick opened his mouth to say _no,_ then closed it again.

"Yeah," he said instead, because this was as close as he was ever likely to get to the transient, sporadic shouting matches Wally described with his uncle. He was swirling the liquid in the cup and couldn't seem to stop or look away—all the sharp, dark feelings surged back to punch through the surface, and it _hurt_ —

Aqualad's webbed hand reached across the table to still Dick's gloved ones. Something that had been wound tight slackened a little more when he looked up, eyes wide. Returned to her normal green, Miss Martian rubbed his shoulder sympathetically. Superboy, looking like he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, patted his forearm.

It was absurd enough that Dick laughed, though he felt like he might cry in a minute. The cords holding him together were degraded by the conversation, and everything was coming loose inside. He set down the cup and deliberately folded his hands on the table. Aqualad withdrew his touch, and a second later so did Superboy.

"Do you need to go to the medical bay?" asked Superboy, frowning. "It is traditional to beat up the perpetrator. Should we beat up Batman?"

"It wasn't a physical fight," said Dick with a brittle smile. "I—he—he didn't even really say anything."

"I don't understand," said Superboy, voice rough with further frustration. "What do we do?"

"What happened?" asked Aqualad, and Dick tried not to lean into Miss Martian's fingers loosening his shoulders, because she was dating Superboy and very, very not available. After a second, he sighed and let the words fall out of him.

"I shot a gun," he said, and the whole room went even deader silent. The hand on his shoulder withdrew, and he told himself it was a relief. "I mean, I've had safety classes. I knew how to do it, and I just shot out a spotlight for cover. Picked up one that one of the goons must have dropped. But Batman hates guns." He looked back down at his cup and said more softly, "He really, _really_ hates guns."

_And I should have known better. Even to save our lives._

There was a long moment's silence. Dick watched whitish foam form on the top of the hot chocolate now that it was still. He could practically hear them exchanging glances over his head.

"Is hot chocolate good?" asked Aqualad.

"What?" Dick looked up abruptly, and Aqualad plucked the cup from the circle of his arms, looking for a moment like the slightly uncertain teenager that he was.

"I have lived here eight months, but never tried it."

Dick couldn't find a way to make his brain shift gears again, and Miss Martian giggled.

"It's very sweet," she said. "But I like it. Do you want to try some?"

Aqualad sniffed the cup, then set it down and stood. Miss Martian jumped up to help, but he shook his head.

"I think I have it covered," he said with a smile. "I am not the one who needs to study."

Miss Martian looked down at the books with distaste.

"I think we could all use a break," she declared, and Superboy looked up hopefully. "Robin."

"What?" he asked. He seemed to be saying that a lot tonight; it felt like he was using up his quota.

Miss Martian's eyes glowed, and with an outstretched arm she cleared the books into neat stacks on one end of the table, Dick's hot chocolate balanced on top. Moving behind the chair she'd been using, she gestured for him to sit there.

"You need a massage," she announced, then blustered, "I mean, only if you want to. Your shoulders feel like you molded them into steel. And I want to apologize for reading your mind."

Dick glanced at Superboy, but he wasn't even paying attention, instead contemplating the kitchen. Wasn't... somebody going to judge him? Give him a lecture?

"What?" Superboy asked when he saw Dick looking at him.

"Robin is concerned you'll be jealous of the attention from your paramour," said Aqualad from the kitchen cupboards.

"Why would I be jealous of attention?" asked Superboy, looking between them.

"Human romances are usually fairly... _adamantly_ exclusive," Aqualad said, and Dick could hear him entering explanation mode.

"Leave it, Aqualad," he interrupted. Superboy was probably better off not knowing. 

Miss Martian beamed at him when he moved to her chair, even if it felt like he was making a mistake. She scooted them closer the table and pushed him forward to rest his head on his arms. He was about to point out that massages were not usually done on the throat when she found the catch for his cape and pulled it off. It surprised him more than he felt it should have.

"Do you know what you're doing?" he asked anyway, feeling weirdly vulnerable as she carefully set it in neat black folds over his former chair. Part of his mind was enumerating all the pieces of equipment that were no longer instantly accessible.

"The girls at school taught me," she said, and he tried to jerk up, but her fingers were already molding to his back. The pressure hurt at first, but slow rubbing eased everything away. Tonight's tiredness chose that moment to catch up with him, seeping into him with the relaxation of his muscles.

"You are aware you may call me Kaldur," said Aqualad, and it took Dick a second to connect this to the conversation a minute ago. Maybe Martians were just naturally suited to—ohhh....

"It's not fair," he mumbled. "You don't know my name."

"You'd tell us if you could," said Miss Martian.

"Yeah. If it was just me...." He sighed. He'd probably be dead right now.

"I do not think any of us realized before tonight, how your mentor affects you."

"He's not so bad most of the time," said Dick. "It's just... sometimes...."

_Sometimes he **is** that stupid mask._

"Sometimes he looks at you like he doesn't even see you, but an image he's superimposing over you."

Raising his head, Dick looked at Superboy, who was glaring at the toaster. Dick let out a put-upon sigh and set his chin on his wrist.

"Why do superheroes have to have so many _issues?_ " he lamented.

Nobody had an answer, but Kaldur finished his hot chocolate and decided that he did, in fact, like it. Dick mentioned that real hot cocoa was way better and ended up promising to get M'gann the recipe. Conner seemed to understand poetry better with a human to help make a few connections the G-Gnomes hadn't felt important and his English teacher hadn't thought to break down for non-humans, for some reason. At some point Wolf started howling and they took another break to sneak him in under the table, where he promptly went to sleep. Dick finally asked Kaldur what he was doing up so late, and he answered (like it was the most obvious thing in the world) that he was there for moral support. Which, yeah, Robin really should have predicted.

When the Red Tornado looked in on them some hours later, Robin was hibernating in a cloud of white fur, his cape tucked in around him.


End file.
